


the real havve hogan

by garbagemanmilo



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Eldritch Abomination Havve Hogan, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mutual Pining, Pining, Trans Doctor Sung, mild body horror, phobos and meouch are mentioned once in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:07:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24244750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garbagemanmilo/pseuds/garbagemanmilo
Summary: Havve Hogan has been around since the Ice Age. He’s also not at all what others expect of him.
Relationships: Doctor Sung/Havve Hogan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 6





	1. what are you, really?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leedeeloo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leedeeloo/gifts).



Despite his outward appearance, Havve is not actually a robot, or a cyborg, or anything like that. The metal shell he wears just protects others from his true form, the _real_ Havve. Underneath the shield of armor, Havve Hogan is a monster, quite literally. His face is mutilated, almost no nose to speak of. A clean, light scar traveling from his chin all the way to the crown of his head, from which little hair grows from, and what does is incredibly fine, dark. His eyes are black from hyphema, splotchy from being beaten, repeatedly, his vision blurry and doubled. His mouth stretches wide, far too wide, with large, needle-point teeth, made for latching onto prey and not letting go. Behind the razor teeth is a massive, thick forked tongue, deep red in color and slick with spit that acts as a paralysing agent. His body is thin, spindly, the bones showing through, with long double-jointed arms, powerful legs, and small, bumpy ridges decorating his spine. Veins, muted purple and sickly blue, show through his paper-thin skin, mottled, rotting, gray and beige and green. A corpse, stuffed into metal casing, that’s what Havve is. A creature left over from an age long dead, the only thing still living, and that word is loosely used to describe the kind of animation in which this monster, this _thing_ , walks, talks, and breathe. He is something that should have been killed, shredded to pieces, wiped out, extinct, many eons ago, and yet he still stands, presides over the world his kind once ruled. A cadaver playing the drums onstage for the entertainment of others, of humans, the ones that snuffed out Havve’s species, then built their monoliths over their graves. He is something ancient, terrible, an abomination. And he wouldn’t want to be anything else.


	2. hideous (but still loved)

Havve takes his place beside Sung at home, still wearing the metal suit that contains his hideousness, unwilling to take it off when he knows Meouch and Phobos are still awake and moving about. Sung is the only one allowed to see him as he was made, every disgusting, bony, rigid inch of him. And for some reason, though he doesn’t know why and doesn’t pretend to understand, Sung loves him; he can see it in the way his iris shifts colors when he spots Havve, can hear the way his heartbeat quickens, can feel it when Sung sneaks into his room at night and presses himself against Havve’s chest. Sung is telling him something, he can’t really understand him too well, maybe because his hearing isn’t the best, or maybe it’s because he just doesn’t care all that much. In any case, it isn’t significant in Havve’s eyes, and he tells the little cyclops so. Sung just smiles, tilts his head, mimicking Havve, and if it were anyone else they would be torn apart, but it’s oddly endearing, something that Havve also makes no effort to understand. Sung is just so complex, in some ways more complex than Havve, and maybe that’s why he’s attracted to the funky little Doctor- he’s the polar opposite of Havve in every way. 

The first time Sung sees his face is happenstance. Meouch and Phobos had left, probably to go get breakfast at a diner, maybe to go hiking. It left Sung and Havve in the house together, when Havve still wore his suit around the house, still uncertain of Sung’s reaction- he wasn’t sure  _ why _ the cyclops’ mattered the most. He was in the living room, flipping through the channels on their television set, and Sung vaulted himself over the back of the couch, landing right next to the larger man. Cheery as always, in a manner that grated on Havve’s nerves, and started babbling on about something or other, words streaming from his mouth that did not matter. Havve simply tuned him out, not even looking at Sung, watching the channel numbers flash. Then the smaller man went quiet, the kind of silence that makes his ears hurt, makes them ring, and Havve finally glanced over at Sung, who was staring directly at his faceplate. “Y’know, I’ve never seen your actual face,” he said, voice light, curious, and it made the horrid creature underneath the metal shrink back. The tone implied that Sung wanted to see his face,  _ would _ see his face, under any means necessary. He flinched back when Sung reached a hand up, only grazing the metal, and Havve lightly pushed the hand back, motioning that he would take off the mask. His hands felt alien ( _ ha _ ) in thick leather gloves, clumsier, as he undid the buckle on the back of his faceplate, hesitated, then pulled it off. Havve blinked, vision doubling as he tried to focus on the cyclops’ face, the blood in the anterior chamber of his eyes a dull pain, and he was aware of the way Sung’s eye was roving over every inch of his face, a face that had been stabbed, punched, slapped, kicked, stomped on. The hand that touched the metal faceplate before came back up, hovering over the scar that stretched from chin to crown, shaking, and Havve nodded, allowing him to touch. The warmth of Sung’s fingertips makes Havve hiss, a quick inhale through impossibly sharp teeth, and the touch retreats, afraid of hurting, afraid of even the  _ thought _ of hurting. It’s sweet, Havve thinks. Incredibly sweet, that a mere noise would make Sung wary to touch a face that had been put through the wringer, that had scared so many others, that this happy man, so full of life that he practically glows, would put  _ his _ comfort first.


	3. you care for me (and maybe i care for you, too)

Havve finds himself looking at his face in the mirror more and more after that. Analyzing his features, the way his eyes are deep-set and hooded, his thin, cracked lips, the distorted nose made up almost entirely of scar tissue. He was never handsome, even by his species’ standards, and now he’s downright horrifying. All the years of slinking by, being caught, tortured, torn apart, sewn back together, and sent back out show in every scar, scab, ridge, and sore. They show in the way he carries himself, how he hunches over, turns his head even while wearing his faceplate, tucks his too-long arms towards his ribs. He traces each indent on his skin with a sharp talon, pulls down the lower lid to get a better look at the blood trapped inside his eyes, bares his teeth and sticks out his tongue, look at it, this is  _ you _ , this is what a  _ monster _ looks like.  **Pull the features apart. Open your eyes wider. Stretch the skin** . He drums his nails on the edge of the sink, keeping an imaginary rhythm,  _ tap, tap-tap, tap, tap _ . Lolls his tongue out, flattens it, pulls the muscle back inside his mouth, behind the bars of his teeth. Drags his opposite hand through the thin hair, long, stringy. Contemplates shaving it off. After all, it won’t change his appearance. Won’t make him uglier. He sighs, picks back up his mask, clasps it on, turns off the bathroom light, and walks out, back to bed. He thinks of Sung as he drifts off to sleep. Thinks of that happy Doctor as he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When Havve wakes up, Sung is sitting in the far corner of his room, tinkering around in some sort of mechanism, tongue stuck between his teeth, and he’s concentrating so hard on it that the taller man doesn’t want to interrupt him. The minute he sits up, the covers shifting against the sheets, the cyclops looks over at Havve, maskless and heavy-eyed, and smiles. Not a pinched,  _ I’m-doing-this-to-be-nice _ smile, either. It’s a genuine, wide grin that makes Havve’s heart stutter in his chest, beating hard on his ribcage. “I’m glad you’re up, I was working on something for you,” Sung explains, and lifts up a faceplate almost identical to the one Havve already uses. The only difference comes to the surface when the shorter man clicks something inside the mask, and the “eyes” on it light up red. “The standard color is red for the optics, but you can dim them and brighten them up with a button here,” he continues, turning the mask around to show Havve the button, the size of a bottle cap and the same color as the surrounding metal. “It’s not com _ pletely _ finished, but it’ll give you a wider range of expression when you’re wearing it.” Havve leans back on his elbows, watching Sung chatter on, carefully pry into an inner layer of the faceplate to screw in something else, fingers flashing across the surface, and he realizes that Sung is doing this, making him a new mask, working for gods’ know how long, for  _ him _ . Because he  _ cares _ . Havve feels his mouth dry up as three simple words pop up in his mind, ‘ _ I love you _ ,’ and then he’s flipping back the blankets and rushing out of his bedroom, his body overheating, boiling over. Once he’s safely locked inside the bathroom, Havve lets out a massive breath he didn’t realize he was holding, deflating with it, and he knows without look that his face is reddened from embarrassment. As red as the optics Sung put into his new faceplate.


	4. the guilt is eating me (but i hope you’re well)

Havve has been quarantined in his bedroom for over a week at this point, curled up in bed and struggling to push away the feelings he has for Sung. It wasn’t easy; he was getting up in the middle of the night just to dodge Sung, pretending he didn’t notice the other man desperately trying to catch his attention. Yeah, maybe it was selfish- scratch that, really fucking selfish-  _ but _ , Havve thinks,  _ Sung would never feel the same. _ Sung likes him, sure, enjoys his company well enough, but to love Havve is to love the beast underneath the metal plating, to love his festering skin and odd face and worry about his animal instincts overriding the feelings Sung has helped him develop. He can’t, won’t, will not risk Sung, his friend, his  _ only _ friend, when he thinks about it, for feelings.  _ And besides _ , a voice in the way-back of Havve’s mind says,  _ he took you on as a charity case, his first big mission. He can change the outer layers of you, Hogan, but he can’t change the hardwired drive, the lust, the urge, to rip and bite and scratch and kill. _ So Havve stays in his room, takes a sip of the two-day-old coffee on his nightstand, and chews at the skin around his nails, letting the blood run down his fingers as he sinks those teeth of his too deep, and reflects.

One week turns into two, and then two turns into four, and Havve is almost ready to throw in the towel. He presses the palm of his hand against his eye, hisses at the pressure, and stumbles around his room blindly until what’s left of his vision returns. His eyes, Sung always wonders about them. Taking Havve’s face in his hands, rubbing the skin beneath them tenderly, lightly pulling Havve’s lower eyelid down to look at the black blotches swimming in his eyes. Havve stays quiet when he does, just enjoys the feeling of warm skin on his, of Sung’s breath against his lips, the way if, if, he was brave enough, he could lean in and kiss him. And in his fantasies, Sung kisses back, slides his hands down from his face to the back of his neck, skin-on-skin, warm and dry and clean, and he doesn’t flinch when Havve’s hands run through his hair, or pull away when his talons get caught in dirty blonde curls. He just relaxes against Havve, breathing out when the other man’s hand brushes his cheek, soft, and the kiss turns into something heavier, hotter, with Sung making little noises as Havve gets bolder, pushing the back of the cyclops’ shirt up, pressing his palm firmly against heated skin, lightly drags his nails down, back up, cradles Sung carefully, lost in the feel of his friend’s body, the way he’s whimpering, holding Havve’s face with both hands-

Havve opens his eyes reluctantly. Leaving the fantasy, crawling back to reality, wobbling, shaky, so,  _ so _ close. He looks at the clock, squints, then feels ashamed of it. Less than two hours have passed. Two hours, where he kissed Sung. Two hours where he felt skin-on-skin. Two hours that were  _ his _ and his  _ alone _ . Havve doesn’t get a chance to wallow in self-pity, never has and never will, but the moment he stands up, knees creaking, he’s almost bowled over by the words that are shouted across his and Sung’s bond: ‘ _ Please come see me, I miss you, I love you. _ ’

Havve has  _ never _ moved faster in his life.


	5. crying tears of joy (ichor)

Havve’s self-imposed quarantine comes to an end, and he’s kneeling down at Sung’s feet, head on his knees, and it’s almost biblical, the moment they stare at each other, the unspoken message they share. Sung’s tearful, choked voice, gentle hands pushing off Havve’s faceplate, cupping his face, repeating those words like a mantra; _ I love you, I love you, I love you _ . Havve says them back, the words traveling across their mental link, and then Sung’s kissing him for  _ real _ , and it’s soft, the way his dry lips press to Havve’s, chaste and not much but  _ enough _ . They part after a handful of seconds, and the cyclops is looking down at Havve with tear-speckled eyelashes, the iris fading from green to blue to pink, and Havve reaches up, leather gloved hands cradling Sung’s hot face, the warmth seeping through the thick material. He opens his mouth, closes it, then starts over. “ _ Sung _ ,” he breathes, voice choppy and rough, slurred. “I love you  _ so _ much.”

Havve stirs himself awake, still on his knees in front of Sung, who’s sleeping, chest rising and falling slowly, evenly. It should be an unflattering position; mouth slack, a line of drool that’s running down his chin, but Havve’s heartbeat starts speeding up.  _ It’s love, _ he remembers, and he can’t help it if he takes Sung’s hand and presses a kiss to his palm. He’s spent too long shoving down his feelings, denying himself the right to love, to physical affection, to pure  _ enjoyment _ . It feels nice to kneel here, before Sung, who got him out of that cave, who took him in and cleaned the dried blood off of him, who showed him what it was like to  _ live _ . His knees are hurting, sore from the sustained position, but Havve can’t bring himself to stand up, even move. So he lays his head back down onto Sung’s thighs, closes his eyes, and allows sleep to claim him again.

When Havve wakes up again, Sung is gone, and he’s in his own bedroom, and for one,  _ terrifying _ second, he thinks he’s dreamt the whole thing. Then Sung walks in, curls framing his smiling face, and Havve lets himself breathe again. “Good morning,” Sung says, voice light and gentle, and the simple greeting is enough to make the taller man melt back against the sheets. “Good morning,” he repeats back, voice still weak from sleep, and gods, Sung pulls back the covers next to Havve, slides into bed, and kisses his cheek. It’s more than Havve could ever want, with Sung nestled against his chest, allowing the taller man to put an arm around his shoulders, sharing body heat, sharing the simple pleasure of being together for the sake of being together. Havve closes his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath, and says, “you’re so good to me, Doctor. Why?” The soft rustling of Sung shifting positions makes him open his eyes again, greeted with the cyclops’ face, golden freckles dotting his face, and he looks like an angel in this sleepy lighting. He can’t help the way his throat tightens when Sung leans in, brushes his lips to Havve’s forehead, and mumbles, “y’know, it’s always been for you, Havve. I knew you were- I guess, I knew you were special. We were meant to be, gods.” Sung huffs out a laugh, face reddening from embarrassment. “It’s  _ really _ sappy sounding, but The Fates threw us together, and we made it work.” Havve leans in, presses his lips to Sung’s to quiet him, but his words are said again and again across their bond, ‘ _ it’s always been for you, Havve _ .’ 


End file.
